Friday, October 26, 2012

"The Worst Plane Ride In The World (Which Does Not Involve Almost Dying, Which, I Have, Fortunately, Never Experienced"

One Christmas when our children were young, we decided to
eschew (“Gesundheit.”“Thank you”) our
traditional Christmas-week vacation to Hawaii and travel instead to London, my
favorite place in the world, so I may possibly have exerted some influence on
the matter.

This is not about the trip, which was memorable, and not
just because seven year-old Anna won the heart of a bellman at our London hotel
named Charlie Farley.If not for me
saying, “London” not “Hawaii”, we would never have made the acquaintance of a
man with such a deliciously rhyming name.

This is instead about our flight, or, more specifically, our
return flight to L.A. from London,
which takes about a year and a half, with favorable headwinds.(The other direction takes a year, but when
you get off the plane, it’s London!)The
carrier was British Airways.I only mention their name because I hate them.And you will soon discover why.

We’re at LAX,
which is L.A’s airport.I don’t know
what the “X” stands for.Maybe LAA
landed clunkily on their eardrums.Although the Tahiti airport is FA-A-A
(pronounced Fah-ah-ah), and they have no trouble with that at all.

Anyway, we were on the Waiting List for an upgrade to “Business
Class”, so when we checked in, we immediately inquired about the chances for
enhanced legroom and a hot cookie when you land.To our excitement and delight, we were
informed that there was indeed available seating in “Business Class”, and that
our upgrade was approved.(There is a
little-known “Victory Dance” designed specifically for upgrade approvals, which
we immediately broke into before a terminalful of gawking travelers.)

Our family was decked out in attractive sweats, to insure
sartorial comfort during the extended flight.I include this passing detail because it matters.As you will shortly discover.

FLASH FORWARD

Our vacation is over, and we are heading back home.We check in at the British Airways counter at London’s Heathrow Airport, where we,
once again, ask about available upgrades. (We had the “air miles” to merit these upgrades;
it was just a question of “Is there space?”)

After checking her computer, we were informed by the British Airways representative that,
yes, there was available seating to reassign
our entire family to Business Class.However, before we were able to explode into
our Victory Dance, we were further informed
that

Get this! No, that's not loud enough. GET THIS!!! No, more. GET THIS!!!!!

The announcement started with a transparently insincere and
inappropriately Royal, “We’re sorry”, after which the obsessively snooty British Airways representative explained
to us that their airline had a “Dress Code” for their “Business Class”
passengers, and that, as our current attire did not rise to the designated
standard, an upgrade, though available, would not be provided.

Can you believe that?!?

We were wearing exactly the same clothes on our departure from
L.A., and they had no problem
concerning the upgrade.Now, because of
some British Airways “Dress Code”, we
were banished from “Business Class” and unceremoniously exiled into “Coach!”

Of course, we resisted, our, to me, indisputable argument
being that, until that very moment, we had never heard that there was a British Airways “Dress Code” for “Business Class”, and that, if we
had known, we’d have dressed appropriately, meaning in something other than the clothes we had worn on
the flight over and they’d had absolutely no problem with.

Was it possible there was only a “Dress Code” in one direction?

Though she listened dutifully – as she was undoubtedly
trained to do – the British Airways
representative was steely eyed and unbending.We were entirely overmatched.The
woman had survived the “Blitz.”If she’d
prevailed over the Luftwaffe, the
fulminating Pomerantz’s would be but a momentary humming in her ears.

“It’s ‘Cowch’ for yew, mah dearies.And be ‘appy we down’t ban you from the pline
altogever!”

She didn’t actually talk Cockney.But I don’t do “stuffy.”It is beyond my
writing skills to simulate on paper speaking superciliously through your nose.

After, what appears in retrospect, to have been token
resistance – we did not even ask to see her Supervisor; we were afraid she’d be
even tougher – we were ushered onto the Tarmac, where we climbed a flight of movable
stairs onto the aircraft, and directed to “Coach”, which, on this plane, meant
ascending a spiraling staircase to the second-floor level of the plane.(The “Coach” passengers were apparently a
protective buffer for their betters, in the event that, should some massive
object, like, perhaps, another plane,
come crashing down on top of our
plane, the peasants in the “cheap seats” would be decimated first.)

Just as we started fastening our seatbelts, our plane
experienced an emphatic jolt, little a brief but more than 5 on the Richter
Scale earthquake.The cabin wobbled from
side to side before returning to the resting position one expects from an airplane
whose engines have not yet been turned on.No panic.But there was
confusion.

Shortly thereafter a voice came up on the intercom, speaking
in the educated and rounded tones one might expect from a radio “newsreader”
reporting the events of the world over the BBC:

Ladies and Gentlemen,
may I please have your attention.In the
process of its removal, the retractable staircase has apparently penetrated the
outer skin of the aircraft, inflicting damage that, I’m afraid, will need to be
attended to.We deeply apologize for the
delay, made necessary by an accident that should not have happened.

We then proceeded to sit there, contorted in “Coach”, for
six hours, after which we were instructed to “deplane” and walk back to the terminal,
where we waited an additional hour, until a replacement plane was located and taxied
in.

Seven hours of waiting, added to an eleven-and-a-half hour
flight.

And we didn’t get the upgrade.

After returning home, I related my tale of severe annoyance
to our travel agent, who immediately made a call, which resulted in a free
lunch with a member of the British
Airways Public Relations department, accompanied by a heartfelt apology and
a complimentary British Airways
overnight bag.

I retain that overnight bag to this very day.But I have never used it.It remains imprisoned in a dank and moldy
closet in the furthest recesses of our basement, next to the water heater.If that water heater explodes, that closet
gets it first.Oh yes, and there’s
spiders.

5 comments:

Mac
said...

"The woman had survived the 'Blitz."Which she spent dropping bombs from a Dornier. BA are awful. Virgin are much less formal; the flight attendants are good fun and they don't try to pretend it's 1955.

Before the 1930s, existing airports used a two-letter abbreviation based on the weather stations at the airports. At that time, "LA" served as the designation for Los Angeles Airport. But with the rapid growth in the aviation industry the designations expanded to three letters c. 1947, and "LA" became "LAX." The letter "X" has no specific meaning in this identifier.[22] "LAX" is also used for the Port of Los Angeles in San Pedro and by Amtrak for Union Station in downtown Los Angeles.